Mismatched
by chaoticsanity
Summary: One injured and ignorant doctor who forces two brothers to think otherwise. Starts off a little slow, but an interesting plot to come, I hope. Frequent appearances by both Holmes brothers and an adorably confused Doctor. Drabble-series.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hullo, all! I can officially vouch for the fact that school sucks butt. Thankfully, summer will be here in about a week and I can remain inside and writing about everything that strikes my fancy. Ah, anti-social tendencies. I love ya. Anyhoo, I'm am back with something a little different; in other words, Sherlock Holmes! Holmes is probably one of my favorite fictional characters, and his relationship with Watson and with Mycroft always intrigues me. So, here we are. Not really sure where I'm going with this little drabble series, but the idea came out of nowhere and kept screaming at me, so I finally screamed back. And wrote it. And now I'll stop writing before you all hate me, because I'm sure by now I seem really annoying. Well, when don't I?**

* * *

To say that life is unpredictable is a gross understatement.

To say that life is unfair is a bitter truth.

To say that I am frightened as I sit by Watson's- _my Watson's_ -bedside, waiting desperately and quietly for his next shallow breath does not do the word justice.

He shudders involuntarily in his unconsciousness, and I don't hesitate in reaching out my hand, only to leave it lingering over his own with awkward uncertainty. After a moment, I let it drop limply onto the standard hospital sheets. I bite back a growl of frustration at my own inability to comfort this man; this man who, in the eight years of our acquaintanceship, has managed to become the closest thing I can call a friend and a habit just as routine and ordinary as my violin and my cherry-wood pipe-

No, I stop myself. John Watson is most definitely _not _ordinary. He is a man of extraordinary character in the way others find me extraordinary in my field of work. And a man who is that extraordinary will not be bested by a meager wound; he will pull through in the way the both of us always do, he will return to Baker Street with me, and in the glow of the firelight and through the smoke of our pipes he will smirk back at me with those bright, inquisitive eyes and joke about his new war-wound.

As I watch his face, so peaceful in retrospect that it is hard to imagine that he is just simply sleeping, my jaw clenches and my hand holds tighter onto the pale blue sheets. He will get better- that is a belief I must hold on to.

* * *

**Like I said, no idea where I'm going, but I know Mycroft will come soon, and I'd always appreciate your reviews, thoughts, and ideas. Thanks for reading, luvs. 3**


	2. Chapter 2

**These drabbles might start a little slow, but stay with me- I hope I've got an interesting idea. :) Watson will wake up soon, Mycroft will make his appearance, and Sherlock will be beyond confused. Or something to that retrospect. Fair warning: I might start alternating P.O.V.'s too. This one is still Sherlock's though. Enjoy!**

* * *

Six days.

Six days in unconsciousness; six days in what the doctors' assure me is a temporary coma. There is only one doctor who I trust, and he is currently the one whom these idiots in lab-coats constantly discuss. Every day I come, and every day I sit for hours, sometimes in silence, sometimes murmuring to Watson about previous cases or the occasional thought that passes through my mind. It is, of course, completely illogical to think that during those brief moments when my breath runs out and I must stop, that Watson would give a soft chuckle, shake his head, and tell me that my mind runs too quickly for my mouth. Completely illogical, yes, but that doesn't keep me from hoping. Hoping almost desperately.

On the seventh day, I finally gathered the courage to remove the bandages from his wound, with the doctor's permission, of course. The wound is above his left shoulder, so dangerously close to his previous wound from Afghanistan that it sends a cold chill running down my spine, pooling into regret and uneasiness at the pit of my stomach. It is a thick graze, still red and puffy and so disgustingly clean-cut. The events of what actually happened are brief snapshots in my mind; I only remember the sharp sound of a gunshot, the stressed, pitiful cry from my Boswell, and the movement of my feet on the pavement, racing to catch Watson as he fell, and missing by a meager fraction.

My eyes linger over his wound, then dart up to his face, where the head bandage still remains. I'm suddenly overcome with a burning sickness in my gut.

My Watson is currently wrought with grievous and possible detrimental injuries that we have yet to see the extent of, and it is because of _me_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Bleh, school finals are the worst. But, I made a nice Watson P.O.V. drabble to make up for my absence! :) I came up with a brilliant little twist for this story while in bed last night (yeah, idk) and I can't wait now.. hehe. Don't worry, we'll get there. Always, review and enjoy!**

* * *

Morphine. That's the first thing I notice, before the bight lights and the stench of antiseptic and dried blood. The sickening, heavy weight of morphine worming its' way through my system.

A hospital, then. I must be in a hospital, though my sluggish mind cannot fathom why. I twist within the sheets and become suddenly bombarded with a dulling pain in my left shoulder- my old Afghanistan wound. But this pain, it feels new, sharper; different from the constant ache that the Jezail bullet left in it's wake. I refuse to make a sound; instead, I force the tiny slits of my eyes open further to take in my room. It is simple whitewashed brick, with an assortment of chairs strewn in various places and one peeling, wooden door in the corner.

And quiet. So very quiet. I blink twice, letting my body adjust to a state of consciousness which, judging by the stiffness of my limbs, hasn't been achieved in quite a while. I take another glance at my surroundings, and come to the very obvious conclusion that I am alone. I have of course been alone before, more so than I care to admit, but waking up in unfamiliar circumstances with an all-too-familiar wound without the comfort of at least _someone _pushed too close to a nightmarishly vivid memory.

I suddenly and desperately wished for Holmes. Foolish that I should want him, I knew that much, but his presence was much more welcome than the creeping images of a burning sun, never-ending deserts, and the barks of gunshots that were currently forcing their way back into my vulnerable and Morphine-addled brain.

I clenched my eyes shut again as the throbbing in my shoulder flares agonizingly, pricking my skin in needle-marks all the way down to my elbow. I let out a shuddering breath; my eyes are forced open once more. All of my thoughts seem jumbled and foggy, and my left side is slowly crawling to numbness. The part of me that still recognizes his duties as a doctor notes the numbness with some alarm, but the rest of me is tired, embarrassingly scared, and still hoping for a man whose acquaintance I just made a few years back. The numbing sensation reaches my thigh and seems to stop, but my mind still slips in and out of haziness, dragging me back and forth, to and from the edge of unconsciousness.

I struggle to keep myself awake, determined to find the answers to my swirling mind of questions. My shoulder jolts again and this time I do whimper, most pathetically, and almost relinquish myself to the morphine and the darkness, until I hear the distant sounds of voices in what must be a nearby hallway. They grow louder and I realize that they sound increasingly familiar, and bitterly angry. I grip the flimsy sheets that surround me tightly as the door in the corner flings open and two very enraged and surprised Holmeses barrel through.


	4. Chapter 4

**Bloody hell, Mycroft is hard to write. I hope I did somewhat decent, because I really was having some trouble working him in. Still, the alerts and e-mails from you guys helped me a lot, and for that I thank you. Enjoy!**

* * *

St. Bart's Hospital was surprisingly quiet; the kind of quiet that unsettles one's nerves, very much unlike the peaceful quiet that I was used to at the Diogenes Club. It left me feeling out-of-place and admittedly nervous as I traversed the extensive halls, drawing ever closer to the Doctor's quarters and, undoubtedly, to Sherlock as well. I raked through the reports I had read earlier in my head_-_ _gunshot wound to upper-left clavicle, possible artery damage, blunt-force trauma to the head -_and swallowed back a wince. They were truly frightful injuries, and on top of the wound he had received from Afghanistan, I didn't doubt that he was in for a very extensive period of recovery. Still, I had the Doctor and Sherlock to thank for their assistance, and I was determined to do so, even if one of them was still under a comatose state.

I turned down another hallway and entered a large sitting room, soothingly decorated in shades of beige. A few nurses strolled about, causally talking to one another and organizing their paperwork, and in the corner of the room there was a thin man sitting limply in a chair, his head in his hands, and a white-bearded doctor standing above him, motioning something emphatically with his hands. I took a moment to observe them, taking in the man's disheveled appearance (unpressed suit, unkempt hair, and eight-day old stubble, from what I could make) and the doctor who stood over him (Scottish burr, nearing seven and sixty years, dealing with the recent loss of his wife). I moved closer to the pair, making to go around them and down the small hallway to their left, where I knew the Doctor was residing. The younger man hadn't made a sound since I had seen them, but the doctor was growing louder as I approached, obviously talking about the man's family member.

"...not much else we can do, 'm afraid," he was saying sympathetically, wringing his hands together. "You knew as much as I did that his injuries would lead to a coma, but I assure you, it _is_ temporary. It's only been eleven days." He laid a calloused hand on the man's shoulder, and my brows furrowed as he took a visibly shuddering breath.

A very important family member, then.

I had just reached them when I was stopped short by the doctor's voice.

"Please, give it time, Mister Holmes." _Mister Holmes? _I stared the man down, and he finally raised his head at the doctor, his stubble prominent, his hair unkempt, and his gray eyes terrifyingly vacant.

"_Sherlock?_"

* * *

**Mycroft couldn't even recognize his brother? Woah, Sherlock's let himself go. And, in case anybody was wondering, this is kind of a flashback thing; Mycroft and Sherlock's interactions during the time our poor, sweet Doctor is waking up to an Afghanistan memory. The next drabble will be a direct continuation of this one, and I hope everyone's enjoying this story as much as I'm enjoying plotting it out in my brain-attic! :3**


	5. Chapter 5

**Whew, sorry for the delay there, guys. Warning: there's an awful lot of italics in this one.**

**P.S. I just found out that the house my dad was _going _to buy was a lovely little white home, overlooking a gorgeous view of a sunlit field, with the address of 221. _2-2-1._ If that isn't some kind of beautifully depressing sign from the ghost of Sir Doyle, then I don't know what is. 3**

* * *

The speed with which Sherlock jumped from his chair was surprising given his current state. For a moment, his knees wobbled beneath him, and I was duly concerned about the last time he had gotten a complete meal and a full night's rest. That concern only grew when Sherlock pounced upon me, wrapping one shaking hand under my cravat and pulling me tightly against him.

"What-" he began, pausing only to control the cracking of his voice, "What are you doing here, Mycroft? You have been involved _enough. _We've," he made a great sweeping gesture with his free hand towards the hallway, "been involved enough. The case you brought to us is finished, and I for one am quite agreeable to the idea of never dealing with you again." He snarled. "So, for the time being, I believe you should leave both the Doctor and I alone, or I swear Mycroft it shall be you who is in the hospital bed next!"

He finally released my cravat and took a step back, taking long breaths and glaring at me with newly brightened, heated eyes. His words stuck in my chest like thorns, each one pricking me in an attempt to make me bleed, and it was absolutely infuriating.

"Are you suggesting that _I _am the reason Doctor Watson is incapacitated?" I shot back, feeling heated at the insinuation. My cheeks flushed angrily as Sherlock began to laugh; a sharp, bitter sound that cut through the empty sitting room.

"And here I thought you were the one with the greater brain power!" he snapped, a horribly disfigured smirk on his face. "Of course I am suggesting that. _You _brought the case to us, _you _sent us out to Carlton's lair, the Doctor and I were retrieving the anarchy papers for _you,_" his voice was rising to an incredible pitch, "You started this horrid mess, and Watson's injury was the outcome!" The scowl that had been growing on my face sharpened, and without thinking, without caring, and without understanding the consequences, I retorted:

"_I _was not the one who dismissed the possibility of a gunman!"

In an instant, a myriad of emotions flickered over the face of a man who I believed never possessed any in the first place. Fury, regret, hurt, and a sickening amount sadness all held a brief possession over my younger brother's face before it slipped back into the calm, cool mask that he had barricaded himself behind almost all of his life.

"No," he said quietly, still holding my gaze, "No, you were not." Pain flashed once more in the depths of his stormy eyes, and before I could form a word, he swiveled on his heel and strode towards the hallway in the corner, leaving only myself and a very concerned Scottish doctor behind.


End file.
